


Harry Potter Mini Stories

by lovelythranduil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26627287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelythranduil/pseuds/lovelythranduil
Summary: A collection of Harry Potter short stories / novellas.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 14





	Harry Potter Mini Stories

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings include (but not limited to): gore; mentions of anxiety; and abuse

Harry Potter had to die.

Draco had known this from the beginning, but hearing his father and aunt speak about it so matter-of-factly was enough to fill him with such a strong sense of nausea, nearly overwhelming him entirely. He had never favored the boy, of course, but. . . what was all of this for? To appease a Dark Lord who had seemingly done nothing but punish them and question their loyalty? Potter hadn't done anything wrong-- not to Draco, anyway-- unless being a cocky teenager with a hero complex warranted death. 

Slim, pale fingers anxiously toy with the ring around his finger, silently praying that the others don't take notice to the bit of fear and stiffness that had overtaken him. If he had the possibility to split the floor open and allow it to swallow him whole, he wouldn't hesitate. That seemed more favorable than watching the two adults in front of him bicker about how they could lure a teenage boy into an abandoned warehouse so he could be slaughtered. Draco knew, now better than ever, that he could not allow his facade to break. He'd done well keeping it up throughout the years. . . always the bitter, rude child who despised everything and everyone. His true self only came out on rare occasions, typically when he was fearing for his life-- it was the softer side of himself that he had learned to bury deep down and lock away.

Malfoys were not kind. They were superior beings, above any mudbloods or those without the Death Eater mark.

Oh, the mark.

The blonde swallowed thickly, his fingers absentmindedly moving to curl around the image donning almost the entirety of his forearm. It was a constant reminder that he was not good-- he was not ( kind ). He was the one who could end all of this pointless fighting, and all it would take was the sacrifice of someone he didn't even consider an acquaintance, let alone a ( friend ).

"--Draco!"

The sharp tone of his father's voice caused his gaze to quickly raise, arms dropping back down at his sides before clasping his hands behind his back. He'd looked up just in time to watch his aunt leave, slamming the door behind herself. The man's gaze looked expectant-- waiting.

"I-- I'm sorry, what was the question?"

The Slytherin forced himself to keep his voice steady, head tilting to the side ever so slightly as he awaited his father's reply. He'd stopped listening long ago, his anxiety raising to an unbearable level with every word spoken. He took notice of the clench of his father's jaw, and knew that zoning out was a mistake. He should have dealt with it; should have forced himself to stay tuned in; should have--

"It wasn't a question. It was an order. You're going to bring the boy here tonight-- Bellatrix and the Dark Lord will take care of the rest. You are to bring him by ( any ) means necessary. . . so long as he gets here alive. They want to do the honors."

The ache in his chest only seemed to amplify, his clasped hands tightening their grip on one another. His nails dug into the skin on his palm, hard enough leave crescent shaped marks in their wake and nearly slicing it open. He shouldn't care this much about someone he couldn't stand, let alone someone who cursed him and then left him for dead. Maybe it was the implications of "any means necessary," or perhaps it was the fact that killing a teenage wizard was considered to be an "honor." Harry Potter was the chosen one, sure, but he didn't get to pick this life. . . it wasn't his fault.

"I-- I don't know if I can do that. He trusts me, and--"

"--and you will use that against him! This isn't about you or what ( you ) want. You've been given an order and we expect you to follow through with it."

Draco's head instinctively lowered at his father's words, cowering back against the wall as the taller male stepped closer. His father's hand moved to his chin, gripping it tightly and forcing his head up to lock their gazes together. His own fearful gaze was met with an angry, almost hate-filled one. The dread lingering inside of him spread throughout every inch of his body, and if he had any tears left in him, he'd be blinking them away.

"He's just a kid. What if it were me?"

Draco's own voice was barely audible, his tone practically pleading with his father to see ( his ) side of things. He and Harry were the same age. . . surely the older man felt some sort of sympathy toward the other boy. 

That false shred of hope was ripped away when his father's free hand curled around the fabric of his tie, forcing him further up the wall with a startled sound of surprise from the teenager. His hands moved to Lucius' wrist, desperately trying to tug himself free from the harsh grasp. It was useless, he knew this, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try.

"If it were ( you ), you would be dead already."

The man scowled, the grip on his son's chin only tightening and forcing him to meet his eyes. The teenager couldn't figure out which hurt worse-- his father's words or the death grip on his chin. No amount of struggling or squirming would save him, but. . .

"You will ( not ) bring shame to this family, Draco Malfoy! Have you forgotten about the ( blessing )? Have you forgotten what you've dedicated your life to? What ( we've ) dedicated our lives to?"

Not waiting for an answer, the hand on the boy's face dropped to his sleeve, forcing his arm outright and yanking up the fabric. The mark was as predominant as ever, the black ink contrasting against his pale skin in a way that seemed to swallow him. If he could have done so, Draco would have shifted his gaze away, but all he could do was sink his teeth into his lower lip and pray that his father didn't notice the tears brewing in his eyes. Though. . . when has anything ever gone right for the boy with no choice? Taking notice of his son's sudden change in demeanor, Lucius' blood ran cold. He wordlessly shoved his son away from him, knocking him to the floor before he was able to steady himself.

"You traitorous coward."

The words were practically venom-filled, but the boy knew better than to interrupt. . . or move from the floor. This wasn't his first time going through something like this, but something told him it would be the last. Their journey, as his mother had taken to calling it, was nearly finished. The outcome weighed so ( heavily ) on his shoulders, and he'd begun to fear that it would never let up.

"You ( will ) bring the boy here. That is an order, do you understand me? --speak!"

Draco's simple nod hadn't been enough for him, so he was quick to stammer out a shaky "yes, sir" before his father turned away, heading for the same door that Bellatrix had exited. He cast a gaze over his shoulder, a shake of his head soon following.

"Where did I go wrong, Draco? There is no fight left in you."

The words hung heavily in the air as the older male stepped outside, clicking the door quietly behind him. The second he was sure he was alone, the boy collapsed to the floor, tugging his sleeve back down to cover the mark he had quickly grown to despise. There was no happy ending to this-- if he brought Harry here, he would be slaughtered. If he didn't, then ( he ) would be slaughtered. . . but Harry would be safe. As the thought crosses his mind, the sobs seem to cease.

Trembling hands move to push himself to sit up, brushing his tears away with the tips of his fingers. He knew what he had to do. . . there may be no fight left in him, but perhaps there may still be some ( good ) left.

His gaze lowered to his rings, each one holding a different meaning-- either to his family or his dedication to his house. One by one, he tugged them off, carelessly letting them fall to the floor and roll away from him.

Now is the time to be brave.

With more determined movements, he stands from the floor, tilting his head back and allowing his eyes to flutter closed. A few deep intakes of breath is able to calm him, and he finds himself moving toward the door mere moments later. He knows what he has to do now.

He has to get to Hogwarts. He has to get to Harry.

* * *

Shoving open the door open, Draco chose to ignore the shaking of his hands-- whether it was from the anxiety or cold, he didn't know. The journey back to Hogwarts had been somewhat treacherous, despite the shortness in distance. He'd hardly had time to focus his thoughts on one particular thing, let alone formulate a plan. The Slytherin knew better than to just come out and admit what he was told to do. . . that would break whatever bit of trust that Harry had held for him.

His movements are quick, practically racing down hallway after hallway, desperately seeking out the boy who lived. He was well aware that he wasn't allowed to be in the Gryffindor common room, but that didn't stop him from throwing the door open. Ignoring the startled gazes from the occupants, widened eyes scanned through them all, ( praying ) to whatever God there was that Harry was there.

Of course he wasn't.

Cursing beneath his breath-- and slamming the door behind him a but harder than he'd meant to-- he turned on his heel and raced down yet another hall. He'd only been to the dorm once before, but he remembered its location. Hopefully.

When he finally arrived, his fist rose to pound against the door before he could even think to do so. His heart was racing, his lungs burned, and his head ( ached ). He only had a few hours to get everything set into place, so there was no time to dwell. Not getting an answer right away only caused his frustration to grow, knocking harder until finally the door was yanked open by a slightly disheveled looking wizard. Harry opened his mouth to say something-- probably to complain about Draco ruining his nap or ask what his problem was-- but he was immediately cut off.

"( He's ) back. It ends tonight."

That was enough to gain the boy's attention, who quickly straightened up and pulled Draco into the dorm. The Slytherin's arms wrapped around himself, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He couldn't go into detail about his plan was. . . this was a solo mission. Telling Harry what was occurring was simply a ( warning ) in case things went sour.

"If you never trust me again, that's fine-- but I need you to listen to me. ( Please )."

The blonde did his best to ignore how pitiful his own voice sounded, deciding to blame it on stress and lack of sleep, and ( not ) the overwhelming fear lingering above his head. He knew how this story ended, and it wasn't a pretty one. There was no happily ever after-- there was no ( after ). It took Harry a moment to nod his head, arms crossing over his chest.

"He wants you. He-- He wants to kill you, and he's going to strike soon. Tonight, I think. You-- You need to get everyone prepared, because otherwise, we're all going to die."

Draco only had a few select group of friends, but that didn't mean that he wanted to see the others ( die ). Whether he liked them or not didn't matter-- they were all just a bunch of children trying their best to survive. . . they weren't cut out for this. Nobody was.

It took a bit more convincing for Harry to finally believe them, reluctantly agreeing to get everything set into motion. Draco moved to the door when they finished speaking, hesitating a moment before tugging it open. He turned his head to look at him one last time, voice soft.

"--good luck, Potter."

He closes the door behind himself, quick strides carrying him down the hall and back to the exit. The tears in his eyes formed once more, his chest tightening in a way that he could only describe as suffocating. Every passing moment meant that he was getting closer to the end. . . though what that entailed, he wasn't quite sure. Slender fingers rose to loosen his tie and undo the first button on his shirt, trying to get himself away from the choking feeling he was experiencing. He could do this. 

What other choice was there?

* * *

Draco could feel Voldemort's presence before he even reached for the doorknob. The porch he stood on was creaky, the wood having rotted through ages ago. He didn't know how long this house had been unoccupied for, but it mattered not. It was abandoned, and. . . so was he. He knew that now.

With surprisingly steady movements, he pushes the door open and steps into the main room, allowing it to swing closed behind himself. The boy stepped further in, met with the expecting gazes of his father and their Lord. . . which quickly turned into something more siniser.

"I couldn't do it."

Draco states, his voice unwavering and emotionless. He may be a coward according to his father, but he stood by his decision-- one that he should have made a long time ago. Voldemort stepped forward, and it took everything inside of him not to step back or race toward the door. Whatever escape attempt he tried wouldn't matter. They'd stop him.

They'd find him.

"You could have been so great."

Voldemort's voice was full of pity as he neared the other, towering over him and resting his hand on the side of his face. His movements were surprisingly steady, catching the young Death Eater off guard-- so off guard, in fact, that he didn't notice the other's free hand pulling the wand from his back pocket. Their gazes stayed locked together, the blonde refusing to show any sign of weakness. 

Not now.

With one swift movement-- and a whispered "petrificus totalus"-- Draco was collapsing to the ground. His entire body stilled, arms splayed out at awkward angles. It wasn't as though he could change this, though. . . a least, not until the spell wore off. Lucius merely watched from the shadows, his gaze cold and unwavering. In his mind, his son had died years ago-- the shell of him that remained was nothing more than a betrayer of their own.

"It's such a ( shame ), Draco. . . the potential I saw in you was overwhelming."

Voldemort's voice was smooth and soft, almost eerily so. He knelt beside the boy, fingers curling around his arm and lightly pushing the sleeve out of his way. His fingertips brushed over the mark with a quiet tsking sound, moving the tip of his wand to the boy's skin. He could make this process painless-- but he wanted him to feel the same pain that ( he ) felt for losing one of his own. The wand effortlessly cut through his skin, circling around the mark he'd been given. . . if he couldn't fulfill his duties as a Death Eater, then he would not die as one. The pain was overwhelming, but he couldn't scream-- he couldn't cry or beg or plead.

"That pain you're feeling? It's nothing compared to the pain you've caused your family."

The Dark Lord's nails dig into the cut, ripping the skin with the mark away in one swift movement. Blood began to steadily pool beneath him, soaking into the dirty carpet beneath himself and staining his skin red. His fingers twitched a bit, the previous spell already beginning to wear off. Voldemort had intended it that way, of course-- nothing about his actions were ever accidental.

Moving to stand, he used the tip of his shoe to nudge Draco onto his back before turning his gaze to the male resting against the wall. One small nod of his head had Lucius following him toward the door, lingering for a few moments.

"We could have been happy, Draco. . . you took that away. Don't forget that."

Lucius' voice was cold, gaze flickering to Voldemort as he moved to stand beside him. The Dark Lord shook his head, watching the way the boy began to twitch, quiet whimpers leaving him. The pain he was currently feeling was nothing compared to what he was about to. A simple, whispered word dispelled the effects of the paralyzation spell, but he was quick to speak once more.

"--sectumsempra."

Deep lacerations cut through Draco's chest, and he wasn't aware that he was screaming until he was practically choking on his own blood. The two other men merely shared a look, before Voldmort's hand rose to flick the light off. Darkness overtook the room, the only light coming from the small bit of Voldemort's wand. It didn't last long, though, because a second later the two were exiting the house and closing the door behind them. His pleas did nothing to stop them, nor to get them to turn the light back on.

Draco's gaze locked on the ceiling above himself, gasping for air despite knowing it wasn't of any use. There was no professor to heal him, and nobody was going to come looking for him-- they were all preparing for the battle. Blood seeped through his once-snow white shirt, eyes beginning to lose what little life they had left. Coughing only caused more blood to spew from his wounds, tears streaming down his cheeks as his gaze fell to his arm. The wound was horrific, and perhaps he should have been mortified. . . but he was realized. The mark was gone. He was no longer a Death Eater-- he was no longer a ( Malfoy ). He was a terrified boy who saved his friends at the sacrifice of his own life, bleeding out in an abandoned house, ( alone ), surrounded by nothing but darkness. Tears steadily streamed down his face as the bleeding seemed to slow, though not because his wounds were healing.

I did good, didn't I?

His hands unballed from their fists, grip loosening and relaxing.

They'll be okay-- they will be, right?

His heart rate began to slow, no longer thumping roughly against his chest.

Was I good? Is there good in me?

His vision became unfocused, and he became painfully aware of the darkness slowly beginning to seep into his gaze.

Was it enough?

( Was it enough )?

Draco's entire body stilled, going limp and ( cold ) within mere moments. His glossy eyes lost any sort of light left in them, and the trembling of his hands finally ceased-- along with his ever slowing heartbeat. The snow outside continued to fall; the wind outside still howled feverishly through tree branches-- life outside of the house simply continued on. 

His entire life, the boy had been raised to believe that his path was laid out in front of him, and that he had little say in what he did or didn't do. When he finally came to his senses and allowed himself to make a choice, well. . .

The Boy With No Choice made the right one.


End file.
